


Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

by mudkipwrites



Series: Ineffable Holiday Heartwarmers [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27499747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have an unexpected meetup at a busy airport, and decide to make the best of a wintery evening. The second part of a series of short and sweet ficlets based on the 2019 Netflix/Hallmark Holiday Movie Bingo prompts!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Holiday Heartwarmers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009620
Kudos: 2





	Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt "All The Flights Are Delayed." This one takes place in the late 1980's, closer to modern-day times.

* * *

_“Gingersnaps!”_ Aziraphale huffs, frowning at the bright screen in front of him. 

A floor-length queue of shifting flight schedules reads with large, crimson letters: _DELAYED._ Not a single departure permitted from Heathrow in the next 48 hours. In fact, all London’s airports are closed--though most had simply turned away would-be passengers at the doorways. Aziraphale, however, had been insistent: there was Her _work_ to be done, and a spot of bad weather wasn’t going to keep _him!_ So he’d pushed through the snowbanks, lugged his bags through security, and, stopping short at his gate, he had found himself _(and a few, stubborn others)_ thoroughly snowed-in at the airport.

The angel sighs deeply and loudly through his nose. Inwardly, he prays for patience. 

This is _most_ inconvenient. The principality had long planned on arriving “the traditional way”’ for the annual “Meeting of Angels.” Once a year, all of Heaven’s deployed angels and principalities gather for a debriefing on recent, significant miracles in the town of Nazareth. For this most auspicious occasion, celestials took extra pains to make certain their pilgrimage was accomplished without any magic. Where and why the tradition began, Aziraphale cannot remember; something about honoring the humans they served, and taking compassion on all of their tedious struggles of daily, mortal life. And, typically, Aziraphale did not follow the angelic code ( _he often would simply pop! his way into existence, wherever he was, and arrive by supernatural powers in Nazareth. Much more cheap, and convenient_ ). However, this year--knowing his partiality to doing things the easy way, rather than the faithful--he had buckled down and committed to making the trip to work sans-magic. 

And he was _not_ going to let this _bloody snowstorm_ be his excuse for his commitments.

He could almost picture Gabriel’s snide, mocking smile on his face when he would arrive by way of magic once again this year _(“Well, look who just spent yet another miracle on the way here!”_ or “ _Still too soft to manage it, eh, Principality Aziraphale?””_ ) “ _No.”_ Aziraphale snaps, setting his carry-on down with a click. “No, I _won’t_ be the victim to one of Gabriel’s head-games again. I’m going to get there, come Hell or high water.” 

“... _You rang?”_

Aziraphale whips his head around, so fast that there might be a crick in his neck. Face flushing with both embarrassment and delight, he gasps: “Crowley!” 

_“Angel._ ” Anthony J. Crowley is standing behind him, leaning with both hands on an extended suitcase. He looks _scrummy,_ as always: long, form-fitting suit coat; soft, leather gloves; some sort of spikes anchoring thigh-high boots. Clad in his usual black, the flame-red of his shoulder-length hair glows like an ember among darkened coals. 

At the moment, Aziraphale’s heart feels just about the same. “Oh, Crowley!” he sighs, striding over to Crowley and toting his suitcase. “Whatever are you doing _here,_ in _this_ weather, my dear boy?”

The closer he gets to the demon, the warmer he feels. It is as if laters of frost are melting off of his coat ( _off of his old, tired bones!)_ and as though he is sinking into a warm bath. Crowley's presence just...does that for him. The demon chuckles. “Why does anyone go the airport, Aziraphale?” He asks. Crowley reaches out and brushes a few, lingering snowflakes off Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Traveling, of course.”

He trails his hand down the angel's snow-dusted arm. When their fingertips brush, the pair of them flinch. 

“Where are you off to?” Aziraphale asks, flustered. 

“Work stuff," Crowley replies vaguely.

 _“Work stuff,"_ Aziraphale repeats, fumbling with the icy buttons of his sodden, wool coat. "Hmmm. In _this_ weather? Of what sort?” He doesn't like the idea of the demon putting himself at risk when all the flights are cancelled. Come to think of it, he wonders if there is even any kind of _liability_ plan, for those who are risking their lives while grasped in Hell's clutches...

Crowley's chuckle distracts him again. After a moment of struggling to undo his coat, Aziraphale feels two gloved hands gently take hold of his own. “Mind if I help?”

“O-oh! Not at all.” Aziraphale swallows and looks at the ground as he feels Crowley’s warm hands undoing the buttons around his neck. He tries not to think about the softness of the black, leather gloves brushing his skin, nor the gentleness that the other man shows in his moment of care. 

“And what about you, Angel?” Crowley asks. The feeling of heat lingers as the demon works his way down the buttons over Aziraphale’s chest. “Where are you off to, on this lovely day?” 

_“Work.”_ Aziraphale replies primly, echoing Crowley’s short answer. _I don't need to go into details about the annual angelic meetup. Giving that kind of information to the Other Side would be unnecessarily risky. Even if it **is** Crowley, who I trust with all of my heart...I cannot put him under that kind of pressure, in that situation. His work is already stressful enough as it is. _Coat now freed from its buttons, Aziraphale squirms it off of his shoulders. “Thank you, my dear,” he sighs. 

“I don’t mind," Crowley answers softly. 

Aziraphale gives a short, shy cough as he hangs the thawing coat over the back of a chair. Sometimes these days, their exchanges border on intimate. “Well, looks like we’re in for it, Crowley.” He says, gesturing with a wave at the flight schedule. “Nothing in, nothing out: today and the next.” He takes a seat in another chair. “All we can hope for is another update.” 

Crowley raises his slim, angular eyebrows.

As usual, Aziraphale finds himself wondering what the demon is thinking behind those inscrutable, dark sunglasses. _(He often finds himself wishing that he could see what those expressive eyes are conveying, as in the olden days. Perhaps this is exactly why Crowley so dutifully covers them: unlike his mouth, his eyes cannot lie, and give away his every desire.)_ “Sssounds like we’ll have to ssstay here for the night, then?” the demon asks curiously. 

“Stay the night?” Aziraphale frowns. “It cannot be _that_ bad outside, can it? Oh, they’re going to _have_ to let us out--” 

And yet, even as the angel is speaking, a serene and authoritative voice crackles over the speakers. _“Good evening, flight guests._ ” The calming voice says. _“By now, you have received notice that flying safely tonight is quite impossible. We apologize for any inconvenience, and will do all we can to ensure your travel safety---”_

“Refund my ticket,” Aziraphale grumbles, “And then, we’ll talk!” 

_“--In order to protect your health and safety, we offer you space tonight here at Heathrow Airfield. Cots will be provided upon your request, and we will have hygiene kits made available. Furthermore, we regret to inform you that traveling outside of this facility will be impossible for the remainder of tonight. Although our construction crews have been working hard on the job, all exits and entryways have now been snowed-out. With our safety machinery out of commission, we insist that you stay at our building tonight.”_

“Ugghh,” Aziraphale groans, rubbing at his face. “Sleeping at the airport? _No, thank-you!_ I’d rather go home to my bed.”

 _“You are our esteemed customers. Once again, we apologize for any inconvenience. Stay safe and warm, and have a good night.”_ Crowley sighs heavily as the message finishes with a crackle. Crossing his legs and sliding to the floor, he takes a seat across from Aziraphale. They sit there for a long while in silence, while Crowley hums absent-mindedly and Aziraphale rubs his tired, soft face in his hands. When he finally looks up at his companion, longing for nothing more than the quiet privacy of his own bed, he finds the demon offering him an encouraging, sympathetic smile. 

“Aw, c’mon, Angel! Can’t be _that_ bad?” He pulls his glasses down his long nose and winks. "Besides....at least we're here _together?"_

As much as the words warm him to his core, Aziraphale is irritable from this unexpected change to his travel plans. “Yes, but I’ve an appointment, Crowley,” he sighs, supporting his chin with the palms of his hands. “And to get there, we’re to refrain from using celestial magic. I guess I'm going to be stuck here, just like all the rest of these poor mortals." 

The demon snorts. “A miracle _ban_?” he asks, rubbing his chin in thought. “Seems a bit _archaic_ , don’t you think, love?” 

“It’s a _pilgrimage,_ Crowley," Aziraphale huffs defensively. He's going to focus on the fact that the demon is insulting his work and master; and not on the fact at he'd just dished him out an adorable pet-name. "It’s _meant_ to be traditional. You know, to remind everyone of how much we ought to be thankful for." 

“You mean _dull!,_ ” Crowley snickers, flicking out his forked tongue. 

“I mean traditional!" Aziraphale sniffs. "It’s a _faith-based_ ritual, Crowley. I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand.” 

At this rather unnecessary barb, the pair of them fall into uncomfortable silence. Tired, regretful and irritable, Aziraphale sighs. He knows that his own short temper has much more to do with being forced to see posh blokes like Gabriel, and far less to do with his companion. _It just isn't fair to take this out on him._ With new firmness in his decision, the angel kicks the toe of his boot into the blue airport carpet, leaving a puddle. _Crowley doesn’t mean me any harm. He's always joking, always trying to lighten the mood and make me feel better. If Anthony J. Crowley, a demon, can make the best of this situation, the very least I can do is put in the effort._

“Crowley, love. I’m _sorry,"_ he says, reaching out to touch the other man's shoulder. "This miserable weather is getting me down. Would you, perhaps...like play a _game_ with me?” 

Crowley’s rigid posture softens at the shoulders. “What kind of game?” He asks curiously. Aziraphale smiles; he knows, ever since his lurking in the garden, that the demon cannot resist an exploration ( _or a competition)._ Reaching down for his travel sack, Aziraphale unzips the front pocket and rummages around for a pair of dice. 

“Any game!” he says brightly. “I’ve cribbage with me, if you like that? Or perhaps, dominos?" 

Crowley pulls a face. _“Math.”_

Aziraphale laughs. “It’s _hardly_ math!” He declares. Settling back into his chair, he bumps Crowley's shoulder with his elbow. “But let’s do something else fun, something that you'd _like._ It looks like we’ll be here for a long while, so we ought to make the best of it, don't you think?" He gives Crowley a shy smile. "It’s not often you get snowed-in with your best friend. We could call it, as the humans do, a _slumber-party."_

Crowley stares at Aziraphale. His sharp, pointed cheekbones dust a bit pink. Then: “Cards!” He exclaims, reaching into his own back to draw out a pack. “I know lots of cards!”

He pulls off his knitted, red scarf _(an item that Aziraphale had made for him years ago, and that he wears annually with the weather)_ and unzips his leather coat eagerly. "Try some Blackjack?" he asks, pulling out a deck between his slim fingers. "Crazy 98's? Texas Hold 'Em? We can play that Rat Slap game that we learned back in Egypt, but it's hardly in fashion these days--" 

“Whatever you like," Aziraphale grins. 

It takes them a little while to get comfortable. It’s not luxurious, reclined in an airport; but Aziraphale finds some wine, Crowley uses a demonic miracle to bolster the plush of their chairs, and, before they know it, the pair of them are laughing and playing away. Any brightness of day has melted away, and the airport is soon shrouded in darkness. The few travelers who also got snowed-in have made themselves camps around various gates, spreading blankets over the floor and propping up suitcases against the walls. 

And, at some point, the angel and the demon move their game down to the floor, so that they can spread out and be even more comfortable as they play cards.

Now, they’ve been playing for _hours,_ and Aziraphale’s plays are progressively sloppy. He’s laying on his belly, knees bent, and kicking his feet up behind him. Crowley demonstrates his serpentine flexibility by twisting into some sort of sideways, cross-legged pretzel. He’s still winning. “ _Slap Jack_?” Crowley inquires.

Aziraphale slams both hands down on the pile before them. He hiccups. “I’thought we were playing _Old Maid_?”

All the red wine is sinking deep into Aziraphale’s bones, making him feel delightfully warm and heavy. Wistfully, he thinks of a night in at his home: decadent, four-poster bed; extra-soft, flannel pajamas; a soak in the bath. “You _are_ an old maid.” Crowley chuckles, gently plucking Aziraphale’s near-empty wine glass from his hand. “It’s hardly nine-o-clock, and here you are, already _yawning_.” He begins gathering up the card pile in front of them. 

_“No-pe!_ ” Aziraphale pops the last syllable. “You’re mistaken, my dear boy! More _games,_ Crowley! More _games_ to be had!”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a fond, lingering smile. The angel does _not_ want to miss out on a minute of this evening with Crowley. What had first started as a massive irritation has turned into a grand opportunity to catch up with his dearest of friends. They’ve been having a _wonderful_ time, playing cards and drinking wine and shooting the breeze, and Aziraphale cannot bear the thought of it ending. And yet, as though reading his mind, Crowley says softly: “Bedtime, Aziraphale.” 

“Mmmnn, _no,”_ Aziraphale complains. But as he pushes against the floor to get up, but finds his head spinning, and limbs like loose jelly. “Er, right. Just a moment--” 

The demon chuckles. He rises slowly from their spot on the floor and glances towards a row of airport chairs. “S’okay, Angel. Jet lag makes you tired. Nothing to fight back against. You just take this spot, alright? And I’ll see you in the morning.” But as he begins to walk away, Aziraphale calls urgently after him. 

"Wait!" He says. "What about our _slumber party?!_ Crowley: you _must_ stay here with me." 

Standing above him, Crowley considers. It’s not a half-bad idea. There have been countless occasions in which Aziraphale has ended up in his bed. Not _IN-BED_ in-bed, but, sharing the space, as it were, with the person he trusts above all else. There was that one time in Jerusalem...in Paris...during the American Revolution...that time in Barcelona..their trip to the arctic…

“Alright," Crowley grins. "But only because I'll get cold on my own. Budge up there, would you?”

Sliding down to the floor, pulling a tangle of blankets around them, Crowley and Aziraphale nestle together. The demon chooses to ignore his mutterings of _"sharp edges"_ and _"bony,"_ and curls into the familiar softness of his best friend. Even though they will both late to their meetings--even though they are camped out in a busy, dark airport, and crowded in without without flannels orbed--Crowley and Aziraphale sleep soundly and well, as though they have never been more comfortable. 

_Work_ will just have to handle itself come the snow-covered morning. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have time, please leave your comments and kudos. It really makes all the difference in the world to a writer and reader like me. Happy Holidays!


End file.
